


Slyther into Love

by Winterwolke



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Facebook: The Pen15 is Mightier, Falling In Love, Gift Fic, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Mistletoe, Sneaky Slytherins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:00:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21616330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterwolke/pseuds/Winterwolke
Summary: Harry and Draco bump into each other at the Three Broomsticks. Soon, they really hit it off.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 155
Collections: Pen15 is Mightier Holiday Gift Exchange 2019





	Slyther into Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrandonStrayne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandonStrayne/gifts).

> Merry Christmas everyone!
> 
> I was struggling hard with this story until I stumbled upon a prompt on Tumblr and then everything rushed out of me and onto the page, it was magical. There's a pun somewhere in there. Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it.
> 
> Chelsea, your wish was for humour, but tbh, I have no idea how to do such a thing. But I smiled while writing this, so I hope it still hits you in all the right ways.
> 
> Special thanks to Lori, who did a great job beta'ing the story.
> 
> Whishing you all a delightful time, joyful holidays and a great start in 2020.

It’s bitingly cold and Hogsmeade is covered under heavy layers of perfect snow. Icicles adorn every roof and everyone is bubbling with pre-Christmas-excitement, despite the wounds of the war fresh in their minds.  
There are fairy lights, some of them Muggle since the Wizarding community opened up and slowly adapted, but most of them are made of real fairies who are flittering around, drenching everything in bright red and green and gold. It’s still a whole month until Christmas, but Harry is in a decidedly festive mood. Just this morning, he had a taste of the first gingerbread of the season and it was spicy and tasty and perfect.

He spent the day mostly by himself, although his friends asked him every few minutes if he really wanted to be alone. “No problem Harry, you can join us,” they said, but Harry didn’t want that. They are all on some post-war euphoria that includes a lot of cuddling, kisses, and extended snogging sessions in the common room. Thinking of it, almost everyone went and found another. Ron and Hermione, of course. Neville and Luna are a thing now, just like Pansy Parkinson, of all people, and Seamus, who is disgustingly besotted. There are Parvati and Terry Boot, Ginny and Dean, Hannah Abbott and Millicent Bulstrode. Michael Corner is dating someone from a lower year, just like Blaise Zabini. The castle is full of couples and Harry is an island of seeming loneliness amongst them. But he feels good. He doesn’t need a significant other, he’s content by himself. Sure, physical intimacy might sometimes be nice, but it isn’t anything Harry can’t do with his own two hands (and a couple of magical toys). He is a teenager after all.

As he enters the Three Broomsticks, he brushes the snow from his cap, quickly vanishing it before it can fall onto the ground. Rosmerta is a fierce lady and Harry doesn’t want to tempt fate by disobeying her rules. 

He is used to the eyes that immediately zero in on him, but apart from the weeks just after the school year started, the other students and people in Hogsmeade are fairly used to him now. Some smile at him, but they are all occupied with each other, sharing drinks and stories and just being social. Hermione waves him over, which is a bit embarrassing, because she nearly topples out of her chair, and he waves back, telling her he will come over soon. He gets a Butterbeer and a shot of Firewhisky, because he is an adult and he rarely indulges in alcohol, and scans the room. All the tables are packed with people, couples, and friends of couples. The teachers sit on their own in the corner by the Christmas tree. Hermione waves again and Harry sighs. But just as he starts his way over, his eyes catch an empty table - or almost empty. 

Draco Malfoy sits there, nursing a tumbler of amber liquid on his own. He looks a little lost without his friends, but Harry has seen Blaise sitting with a group of Ravenclaws, and Pansy and Seamus aren’t even here today. Millicent and Hanna sit with Neville and Luna and some other students from different houses. If anything was achieved after the war, it’s house unity.

Malfoy is deep in thought, staring at nothing, and Harry feels compelled to at least give it a try and engage him in a conversation.  
Over the last few months their feud died down. They both have seen enough violence during the war and lost their taste for mindless rivalry. Malfoy keeps to himself, somewhat isolated from the Slytherins, but they don’t actively avoid him. He just seems more content being alone. Harry can relate to that.

He clears his throat when he stands in front of the table and sees Malfoy flinch. For a second he looks horrified, but he regains his composure soon enough and looks up at Harry.

“Can I sit here?”

Malfoy only shrugs, so Harry takes it as permission and pulls out a chair. With his back to the room and the table tucked away in a corner, he momentarily feels like he is alone with Malfoy, far away from the rush of the crowd and the pressure of life. Then somebody stumbles against his chair, interrupting his thoughts and the sounds of the pub come buzzingly back to his awareness. It’s odd, but he doesn’t comment on it.

They sip their drinks in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. Harry thinks it’s a great trait in any relationship when two can enjoy silence between them. Talking is overrated. His Galleon vibrates in his jeans pocket and he fishes for it, putting it on the table.

“u ok?” it spells. Probably Hermione who still waits for him at her table. His fingers glide over the raised letters, spelling a simple “ok” to alleviate her worries. She surely has seen him sitting down with Malfoy and is now concerned they might try and resume their childish feud.

“Can I see?” Malfoy breaks the silence at last, looking intently at the coin. Harry slides it over for him to inspect, trusting he won’t mess with it. He has to start putting his trust somewhere.

“Granger made these? It’s genius. No wonder we couldn’t catch Dumbledore’s Army,” Malfoy says, almost to himself. His fingers swipe over the letters, setting them all alight as a sign they are activated, before he does another round, turning them all off. “How do you send it?”

“Just tap the middle two times and think of the person you want to reach.”

“And if I wanna reach everyone?”

“Tap it three times.”

Malfoys hands fly over the letters, the glow softly reflecting in his white face. His fingers are fast and Harry can’t follow them all, helpless when he sees him tapping the middle three times to send it to every other coin. A few seconds pass, then Harry hears the choked exhale of someone reading the message, followed by a few snickers. Over the crowd he hears Ron’s enraged “How dare he?” and Hermione’s frantic tries to shush him, to not make a scene. Malfoy slides the Galleon back over the table.

“potter stinks” glows red and unforgiving back at him. He looks at it, outraged, before he looks back at Malfoy. Despite the words, he doesn’t look malicious. More like playful. Like it really is just a joke, not some insult to start a fight. He grins softly and it transforms his whole face. Instead of looking sharp and pointed, pale and unhealthy, the slight smile gives his face something round that soothes the angles of his cheekbones and his nose. His grey eyes glitter with mirth, almost erasing the slight bruises under them that speak of some sleepless nights. His hair shimmers golden in the warm light of the pub.  
Malfoy, Harry decides, looks like a completely different person when he smiles.

“Ha ha,” he replies to the silent challenge, but the longer he thinks about it, the more he can see it is actually funny. Back in fourth year it hadn’t been, not even remotely, when he’d had to fight for his life and the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs had made it their mission to make it even more miserable. But now, after the war, after everything, he can see it as a simple prank, maybe a bit out of line, but not vicious. Not the work of a Death Eater in training, but the doings of a school boy. 

He looks Malfoy in the eyes, and suddenly a dam seems to break and his laughter sputters out of him. It breaks the slight tension in Malfoy’s shoulders, something he only discovers now that it’s gone, and they both raise their glasses and chink them together. 

“So,” Malfoy says, “Pansy and Finnigan?”

And it’s just so ridiculous, Harry laughs again. That’s a match he would’ve never thought possible, but somehow it still happened. Of all the couples around the castle they both seem like the most fake one, but also the most genuine one. It’s a strange contradiction, their relationship, but Harry’s the last one to judge. Not when he has his own secrets.

“You know, being Pansy’s gay best friend doesn’t always have its perks. Just last week she got a delivery from France. She pulled me out of Arithmancy, claiming she had something life-threatening to tell me, so Vector let me go. Probably thought the Dark Lord was back with all the ruckus Pansy was making. Anyway, she dragged me to the girl’s dorm only to show me the lingerie she got and ask me which one was the most sexy on her so she could wear it for her date. I had to scrub my eyeballs with Mulpepper’s, but I’m afraid the pictures are seared into my brain.”

That’s the longest that Harry has ever heard Malfoy talk and he doesn’t know where to start. So he picks up that last notion and begins his own tale.

“You think you have it bad, try listening to Seamus composing poems for her. 

‘Her hair is black,  
she has a lovely rack,  
please let me in your pants,  
my dick’s itching like ants.’ 

Despite the obvious grossness I don’t think you should tell someone your dick is itching. Sounds mighty unsanitary to me.”

They both burst out with laughter and from then on they really hit it off. They avoid talking about the war, naturally, but they talk about everything else. They complain about those ridiculous couples everywhere, about being sick of the sound of smooching and flirting, the overly-sweet things that make their teeth rot. It’s embarrassing listening to them. 

When they part for the night with promises to meet again to avoid the happy courting, Harry feels lighter and happier than the months before. Who would’ve thought that the person he gets along with best nowadays is Draco Malfoy, his former nemesis and all-around pain in the arse.

While he walks back to Hogwarts, it never occurs to him that Malfoy openly admitted to being gay.

***

The next week happens in a blur. Harry does everything like he normally would, getting up before the others to enjoy a long, hot shower with some additional pleasure, rolling his eyes at the antics of Ron and Hermione, Neville and Luna, Ernie MacMillan and Dennis Creevey, or every other lovey-dovey couple. He goes to his classes, does his homework, eats in the Great Hall, and learns some more after supper, so he can get a good result in his NEWTs.

But there is something in the air, something that makes him almost giddy. It could be the spirit of Christmas, which is coming closer with every day, but Harry doesn’t think so. While he’s learned to enjoy Christmas, it’s still nothing that makes him especially excited or gives him sleepless nights. He’s planned on staying at the castle, where he’s sure he can enjoy some quiet days, even if Molly is writing every day to change his mind. He loves his family, he really does, but this year he just doesn’t feel like celebrating much. Maybe it’s the lingering trauma of the war, or maybe Harry is just one of those people who can be content by themselves in the company of silence. 

On Friday, he’s elated like he hasn’t been in a long time. He hopes whatever wrackspurt is causing his joyous mood stays around for a while, because he can almost get used to this feeling of simple happiness.

“What’s the matter with you, Harry?” Hermione asks as he sits down at the Gryffindor table, picking a plate and loading it with scrambled eggs and bits of sausage and toast. He smiles at her.

“I don’t know.” And he doesn’t, but he also doesn’t care. Sometimes you don’t have to question everything.

His good mood isn’t even soured when he messes his potion and it slowly burns a hole through his best jumper before he can get it off. The cauldron is lost, but thankfully someone reacts quickly and vanishes the mess before it can do more damage.

“You’re welcome, Potter,” comes from behind him, and he slowly turns to see Malfoy with his wand pointing at the now cleared working station. He smiles at Harry, but it’s small and soft and he doesn’t think anyone else except him sees it. Which is fine, because since when does Malfoy smile? 

Anyway, in light of their fun time on Saturday, he nods his thanks before assessing the damage he’s done.

“Shite, I need a new jumper,” he says to noone in particular and is surprised when he gets an answer from Malfoy, who’s still watching him.

“And new jeans and shoes. And if you’re already there, maybe a whole new set of jumpers and trousers - not those atrocious denim abominations.” Malfoy puts his wand away and ticks his fingers as if making a list. 

He looks so serious, counting out everything Harry needs to buy, that Harry can’t help but ask: “And why would I need so many new clothes? The jeans are perfectly fine!”

Malfoy looks at him then, letting his hands fall down, horrified: “Merlin Potter, you look like a heathen! Or like, stuck in Muggle America! You are a public person, you need to maintain a certain standard. Think about what Rita Skeeter would say!” He opens his eyes wide in sarcastic outrage. 

Harry snickers but refuses to rise to the bait. He knows it’s just friendly banter, but the idea to share it with Malfoy is equal parts intriguing and baffling.  
Suddenly chairs scrape on the floor, signalling that the lesson is over. They scatter apart, and only now Harry becomes aware of how close they’ve come during their short conversation. It’s almost intimate, like they are actual friends putting their heads together to share secrets. He catches Malfoy’s gaze, like he wants to say something and Harry leans back, closing the gap between them. It’s hard to hear him over the rustle of parchment and chattering students, and Malfoy doesn’t make it easier, almost whispering. “If you really want to buy a new jumper, we could meet tomorrow in Hogsmeade. In all honesty, Potter, you really look like you could use some help. I’ll even promise not to be too overbearing.”

“Won’t the others not be suspicious if they see us hanging out?” Harry doesn’t really mind what they will think, but maybe Malfoy does.

“Let them think what they want to. I’m sure they will come up with a believable explanation.” With that he picks up his bag and leaves.

At supper, a huge eagle owl delivers a tiny slip of paper. “Tomorrow, 3 o’clock” it says, nothing more. It isn’t signed but Harry knows exactly who sent it to him. He's kind of excited at the prospect and feels himself smile for a long time that evening. Hermione looks at him, both annoyingly and kind of knowingly, but he doesn’t mind.

***

Harry should’ve known that Malfoy is a sneaky bastard. “I said ‘I’ll promise’. I never actually promised anything and you didn’t ask me for it.” His smile is smug, but it doesn’t carry the air of superiority he had in fourth or fifth year, so Harry doesn’t mind. Much.

He has his hands full of two dozen jumpers and shirts, some in garish colours he wouldn’t even look twice at, but Malfoy insist he try them on. They have already finished the trousers (he was even allowed some new jeans), but Malfoy, that damn slave driver, has announced he will make Harry try some robes and jackets as well. They’re in the most expensive shop he has ever been, but he can admit that he sees and feels the difference.  
The fabrics are softer and seem more sturdy. Some of them are infused with magic for better fit or longer durability. He has self-cooling shirts for hot summers, and auto-warming socks for the Scottish winters. 

It’s a bit much, really, but despite his earlier protests, he kind of enjoys himself. And Malfoy. It’s surprising what good company Malfoy actually is, even if he’s the most snarky, most sarcastic bloke Harry’s ever met. He makes up for it with genuine compliments and actually talking without sounding condescending. And he knows a lot of things about fashion and clothes and the importance of thread counts. He’s also surprisingly open to Harry’s likes and dislikes. Although some pieces are colours and styles he’s still not sure aren’t too risky, the things they’ve chosen do not only suit him, but are also things Harry can see himself wearing in his everyday life.

“You should think about becoming a tailor. Or an image consultant or something.” It bursts out when he sees Malfoy critically raising an eyebrow, rubbing his chin as he contemplates if orange is one of Harry’s colours. He’s - obviously - a summer type, whatever that means.

“I’m sure that will go over well. ‘Hire Draco Malfoy, former Death Eater, to advise you on style and public presentation. For references see Harry Potter and the deceased Dark Lord, who didn’t listen to Mr Malfoy’s admirable sense of fashion - and look how that turned out!’ I’ll stick to my cauldrons and books, if you don’t mind.” 

He chuckles darkly, and Harry doesn’t follow the thought. They both haven’t mentioned the war and it’s better to let the topic sleep, anyway. Better not to wake those horrid memories. Harry isn’t even sure if Malfoy knows he was connected to Voldemort and saw everything. 

They finally finish looking for clothes and Harry chooses a warm jumper to wear since the one he came in with is really pathetic. When he compares it with all the stuff they just bought, it’s obvious even to him. Malfoy is right, somehow. He’s Harry Potter, he’s a public person. Even if he doesn’t like fancy clothes, his hand-me-downs are embarrassing. But he has money now. He actually can afford new clothes every now and then.  
Malfoy watches him the whole time with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, like he knows exactly what Harry thinks. But it’s okay. He really earned it, being patient and keeping Harry company today.

He thanks the clerk, working out the details of delivering everything to Hogwarts, before he turns and says: “Now that we’re done, how about we do something I like?” Malfoy laughs softly, untypically, and just nods, holding the door open for Harry as they leave.

*** 

“I saw you with Malfoy,” Ron says between two bites of kidney pie. Half-chewed pieces of meat spill out between his words and Hermione chokes. Harry raises one eyebrow in an imitation of the mentioned Malfoy, but he chooses not to comment. If he doesn’t make a big deal out of it, maybe the others won’t either. He should know better.

“So what’s going on between you two?” Ron audibly swallows his bite down, sputtering and coughing. Mrs Weasley would be outraged at his blatant show of manners, but she’s fortunately not here and everyone else at the table is used to his antics. 

“There’s nothing going on. We’re just spending some time together. You know, like normal people. Talking. Nothing more.”

Ron nods, like he understands completely, but the wary expression in his eyes belies the motion. “So you think he’s up to something?” he asks finally, before he cuts another huge piece of pie and crams it into his mouth. Hermione lets her cutlery clatter onto the table and gets up, huffing in disgust, before she leaves the Great Hall, probably heading for the library.

“Why would I think that?” Harry asks. His eyebrow is still raised and he finally understands why Malfoy uses it to underline his sarcastic statements or disbelief.

“Because you wouldn’t spend time with him if you didn’t think he was.” It comes out as something else entirely, more grunts and moans, but they’ve known each other long enough that Ron understands his sleep-drunken ramblings and Harry is fluent in meal-speech. He thinks about the answer to that, if it’s worth the fight that will inevitably follow, and decides to just shrug. He doesn’t really have anything else. It’s nice to spend time with Malfoy, because, once you know him, he’s a decent bloke. He’s fun to be around, he knows a lot of things other than pureblood crap, and when they went to Spintwitches Sporting Supplies, he didn’t complain once when Harry took almost an hour to compare one pair of Seeker gloves with another. He even gave some helpful advice - it paid off to talk to another Seeker. Ron never had the patience to discuss matters of wearing comfort and the difference between Thestral leather and normal pig leather. 

It should end with his shrug, but Ron still has something to say.  
“Seriously Harry, don’t let it be like sixth year. I know you were right, I know he was up to something, something bad and awful, but maybe he isn’t now. Malfoy just looks lonely sometimes, maybe that’s why he’s spending time with you. Think about it.”

Leave it to Ron to be equally insightful and oblivious. Like Harry doesn’t know it isn’t like sixth year, doesn’t know Malfoy just likes to spend time with him. Like Harry actually claimed that Malfoy is doing something sinister and Harry just keeps an eye on him. Like they both aren’t a bit lonely in this castle full of couples. So he just shrugs and proceeds to peel an orange.

***

They spent another weekend in Hogsmeade after Malfoy told him between classes that he needs something from Tomes and Scrolls. Harry’s never been inside the shop despite Hermione frequently trying to make him go with her, but he’s not surprised when the interior is dark and musty and full of books. It seems typical for Wizarding stores to be stuffed full to the point of overflow, like Ollivander’s or George’s shop. The books are stacked high under the ceiling, inside of shelves, on tables, chairs and every other available surface. It smells old, no thanks to the blocked up windows (more books). Malfoy slowly weaves through the rows, careful not to trip over tomes that look ancient. There is a faint whisper in the air and Harry isn’t sure if it’s a Wireless somewhere or the books themselves, trying to lure him in. His skin crawls and he tries to rub his arms sneakily. He’s sure he’s offending someone, being on edge in this shop. It takes several minutes, then Malfoy stands beside him, holding a brown parcel as far away as he can without dropping it. He looks unhappy and hurries Harry out and into the harsh cold of the Scottish winter. He’s never been so glad to feel the sun on his face, not even after escaping from Gringotts on the back of a dragon. Malfoy heaves a relieved sigh, before he shakes himself like an animal. His blond hair flops around, the light catching and setting it aglow. It looks almost ethereal and Harry is confused why, for Merlin’s sake, he even notices.

“Let’s just bring this to the post office, then we can do something more pleasant.”

“I want to go to Spinwitches,” Harry says. Usually he has to wait for a long while before Ron allows him to drag him there after a visit. Malfoy merely shrugs, a small smile tugging at his pale lips, and says “Sure.”

***

They end up in Honeydukes. Harry likes it well enough to enjoy shopping there, but he has never seen someone’s eyes brimming with joy like Malfoy’s do as soon as they enter. People look at him in annoyance or anger and Harry can’t resent them for it. They all know what Malfoy did. But surely they can’t stay mad when confronted with the delight that’s written all over his face. He seems almost reluctant to touch anything, to get too close to the displays, as if he won’t be able to hold himself back, once he lets his restraints slip. 

Harry acquires some samples - being the Chosen One is useful sometimes, but only for something as simple as free reject chocolate. He presents Malfoy his spoils and just nods at the unspoken question. The hand that snatches some small pieces of a destroyed Chocolate Frog is shaking lightly, but Harry doesn’t know if it’s some kind of misplaced awe or just the first signs of low blood sugar. He decides on excitement when he sees Malfoy closing his eyes in utter bliss as the chocolate melts on his tongue. He’s sure he can hear a soft groan, even though nobody else can. 

Malfoy’s face is relaxed, a ray of light hitting his face just right (how does he do it?), so his skin looks like it glows from within, white and pale and perfect. Harry swallows the lump that suddenly clogs his throat and dumps the rest of the rejects into Malfoys open hand. He watches avidly as Malfoy eats one after another in rapid succession, like once he has started, he can’t stop. Soon his hand is empty and when he opens his eyes, he looks almost disappointed that there isn’t more. He suddenly becomes aware of Harry staring at him. He’s blushing - and Harry has never seen that before. Not like this. He’s used to Malfoy getting red in the face in anger and outrage, ugly splotches on his cheeks, but this is different. It’s eerily soft, but it suits him. It’s like Malfoy is now: a bit subdued, not obtrusive and fighting for attention. 

For a moment their eyes meet, grey and green, but then somebody bumps into Harry from behind and the moment is broken. When he turns back to Malfoy, he’s staring overly hard at a display of Cockroach Clusters, like they hold the answers to every question, so Harry leaves him to it, roaming the shop. 

He thinks about what he just witnessed. Elitist pureblood Draco Malfoy enjoying chocolate like it’s the best thing in the world. Better than superiority or bullying other students or even Quidditch. He remembers the huge parcels his mother would sent him at the beginning of every school year and realises that those deliveries stopped sometime in third year. He’s sure there is a story behind it, but he won’t ask, not today. They’re having a good time, the third week in a row, and their easy friendship (when did that happen?) is still fragile enough that Harry doesn’t want to strain it with imposing questions.

He collects a box of chocolate frogs and sugar quills, stopping shortly at the liquorice wands before he puts it all on the cash desk so the clerk can ring it up. She’s looked at them in anger when they entered the shop, but now she smiles, adding a small box of heart-shaped nougats.  
“For free. They melt every heart, trust me.” She winks at him, but he isn’t exactly sure why. Malfoy’s waiting for him by the door, his hands thankfully empty. He looks surprised when Harry dumps everything on him.

“What, Potter? What’s this?” he demands in his haughty voice, but it’s missing the bite of previous years.

“Shut up, Malfoy. I know you like all this sweet stuff and I’m pretty sure you don’t get it as much as you’d like. Merry Christmas… or something.” Harry steps out onto the streets of Hogsmeade, but he hears the silent “Thank you” nonetheless.

***

The last week before the Holidays passes in a rush. There’s more homework, more papers, more everything, but it doesn’t bother Harry. He’s taken to stopping by the library for an hour or two, escaping the couples in the common room that are enacting goodbye scenes at every opportunity, even though they still have a few days before the train takes them back home. Everywhere he looks, someone is making out or softly crying in desperation over the forced separation, but since it’s for a good and pure reason, he doesn’t mind it much. He's still annoyed, because everyone seems to have someone.

Harry isn’t surprised to find Malfoy in the library on Monday evening, furiously writing on an essay for Charms, for the same reasons. They are comfortable around each other now, working on their homework and occasionally complaining about the antics of the couples. Seamus and Pansy have been sneaking off between classes. They laugh for a good solid hour about it, imagining McGonagall's face when she finally caught the lovebirds. 

“Pansy was devastated, you see, because Finnigan had a hand in her blouse and you don’t want to know where she had her hand in turn.”

“Still, Seamus is, like, the king of us all. They cheer on him whenever he enters the common room.”

They soon decide to spent the last weekend before the break in Hogsmeade, again. Harry thinks it’s nice that they both stay over the Holidays, since the castle will be nearly empty. They won’t need to find excuses for why they spend so much time together. Ron still thinks Harry thinks Malfoy is up to something. He spends every breakfast pointing out how nice Malfoy has been in the last months, how he doesn’t pick fights anymore, and that this is evidence enough that something's wrong. Hermione, in turn, doesn’t say a thing, but she looks at Harry in a way that tells him she knows something he doesn’t. It isn’t her usual know-it-all look, but something softer. Sometimes she looks at him, snorts and shakes her head, like he’s the biggest idiot in the room, which is a feat considering they’re in the Great Hall.

He’s none the wiser on Thursday, when he goes looking for Malfoy in the dungeons, to ask him when they want to meet on Saturday. He hears Malfoy’s voice from the potion’s cabinet, but it isn’t the only one. There is also a female voice, but it’s not Pansy and Harry’s curiosity instantly goes into overdrive. What are they doing here, at this time, late on Thursday evening? Malfoy should have been in the library, but when Harry went there, there was no one but Madam Pince and he was forced to actually look for him. Something doesn’t sit right with Harry, but he hasn’t used his cloak in forever and it’s currently in his dorm. Harry decides to make as little sound as possible and goes to investigate.

Malfoy sits on one of the tables next to the door. His feet barely reach the floor and they sway back and forth while he listens to what the girl says. Harry isn’t sure who she is, but her Slytherin jumper gives him a clue. She seems to be younger, a few years at least, but Harry can’t remember ever seeing her around. He can’t understand what they talk about, when she reaches into her bag, a Muggle backpack with a huge Slytherin emblem on it, and pulls out a small package with a green ribbon. She opens it, showing Malfoy the contents and he nods, taking it from her and putting it away inside his robe. 

That’s the moment Harry clears his throat, eyebrow raising in question. The girl looks up guiltily, like he caught them in the act, and Harry’s heart pounds painfully in his chest. He thought they were over this, over those devastating secrets of the past, of sneaking off to do who-knows-what. Malfoy, in turn, doesn’t look guilty at all, but he has his poker face on. Suddenly it seems Ron is right: Malfoy is, indeed, up to something.

“It’s alright, Steph. Thank you,” Malfoy says nonchalantly, dismissing her. She takes the opportunity, obviously glad to escape, and leaves. He smiles pleasantly at Harry, like he did nothing wrong, and maybe he didn’t, but the doubt is there now, poisoning Harry’s thoughts. Was everything just an elaborate distraction from Malfoy’s plans? He doesn’t know.

“What did she give you just now?” he hears himself ask, even though he knows that Malfoy will lie to him.

“Just some ingredients for potions. Steph is a master at Herbology.” He waves his hand, like this explains everything. Maybe it does.

“Neville is a master at Herbology too,” Harry says deviantly, just to say something.

“I’m sure he is, but you might have noticed that Longbottom and I aren’t on the best of terms. You know, with me bullying him and mocking his parents and all.”

“Huh.”

The silence between them is uncomfortable for the first time. Harry shuffles his trainers over the stony ground, willing Malfoy to say something, to set this right, whatever this is.

“We’re still on for Saturday, aren’t we? Three o’clock at the gates?” Malfoy asks, trying to keep his voice normal, but Harry can hear the fear underneath, the insecurity. 

“Yeah, sure,” he says, but his heart isn’t in it and Malfoy hears it.

They don’t talk on Friday.

***

It’s the coldest day so far, but it stops snowing when they meet at the gates. Malfoy is wrapped tightly into his thick, black cloak, a Slytherin scarf draped around him, nearly covering his whole face. His grey eyes gleam brightly, the emerald green only highlighting them. Harry swallows, his throat suddenly dry, but then he remembers what happened in the dungeons and whatever he wants to say stays stuck in his throat. 

They don’t speak as they walk into the village, watching the few people that still have to get Christmas presents. Harry walks a tad faster than Malfoy, still unsure of what he should do, if they should talk of if he should just let it go. They have something nice between them, something he never thought possible. Can he really throw it away on some chance meeting?

Something rustles behind him, but when he looks back, Malfoy is still muffled up, following Harry’s lead. He doesn’t have a destination, so he just walks, pretending to do some window shopping, while he wonders what he should do. The rustle follows him, but he never sees anything suspicious and Malfoy doesn’t talk. They wander the length of the village, finding themselves opposite the Shrieking Shack. It’s almost dark when Harry stops and swirls around, tired of the continued silence. 

He hasn’t seen the frozen puddle underneath his feet and the abrupt motion makes him slip. He throws his arms up, uselessly grabbing at the air, and then hands are on him, trying to prevent his fall. It’s useless, though, and both he and Malfoy crash down. Harry lands hard on his back, Malfoy above him. As he opens his eyes, the glimmer of the fairy lights above catches in Malfoy’s hair, red and green and, again, perfect. Harry wants to touch it because it looks like spun gold. He sees something else, though, something leafy and green.

“Urgh, Malfoy, there’s a mistletoe above us.” It’s all he can say before Malfoy’s lips are on his and they’re kissing. Harry’s brain freezes for a second or two, unsure if it’s the cold or the fact that Malfoy. Is. Kissing. Him.

Images flood his mind, coming and going fast, reminding him of the past three weeks. The first time they drank butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, laughing about all the couples. The day they bought Harry new clothes and discussed Seeker’s gloves for nearly an hour. All the times they met in the halls between classes, greeting each other with a nod and a smile and a “Hey Potter!”. Malfoy’s undeniable joy at getting sweets. Hours in the library. Hermione smiling like she knows something he doesn’t. And suddenly Harry knows what she knows, probably has known from the first second. He likes Malfoy. Likes him a lot. Likes to spend time with him. Likes his smile and his sarcastic humour and his silent patience. Likes walking through the snow, watching fairy lights. Like a couple. He likes Draco Malfoy, is actually in love with him. And Malfoy is in love, too, he realises.

Their kiss gets heated fast, but they’re still on the ground and the cold slowly seeps into Harry’s anorak, making him shiver. They struggle to get up, barely able to let go now that they have found each other. Malfoy smiles, and it looks almost like the one at Honeydukes, but even more ecstatic. Harry feels his own cheeks hurting pleasantly from doing the same. 

“Let’s get back to the castle, shall we?” Malfoy - no, Draco - asks and grabs Harry’s right hand with his left. They lace their fingers together, the grip tight and not willing to ever let go. Harry nods and they begin their walk back, but then he stops.

“I figure there were really just ingredients in the small package, yeah? I thought you were up to something.” He laughs to cover up the importance of the question, but Draco catches on and looks serious for a moment.

“It’s alright, Harry, I’m not hiding anything, I promise.” And Harry believes him.

***

It’s a good thing Harry is too distracted by the fact that he and Draco are dating now to notice Draco subtly swishing his wand. The mistletoe nestled in the fairy lights slowly unfastens, flying silently through the air. Another mistletoe pinned to the window of Spintwitches follows, as well as one hanging from a streetlamp a few metres between the next shop window, which is equally adorned. 

One by one, every mistletoe in the street comes loose and follows the pair. When Harry and Draco stop to kiss, each piece vanishes under Draco’s cloak, getting back into the small package with the green ribbon.

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for writing myself into the story, but I hope you didn't mind and I really needed to show off my sweater and my backpack, which I love to death.


End file.
